


Finders, Keepers

by Joel7th



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Eventual Smut, Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, a bit crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-07 16:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11627859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joel7th/pseuds/Joel7th
Summary: Jesus came to Alexandria to do trade and to see a certain grumpy hunter. However, he didn’t see said hunter; instead, just outside the walls of Alexandria he found a black cat – wait, was that really a cat?!





	1. Chapter 1

Paul didn’t miss the unified weird expression Rick, Michonne and Carol were giving him when they came to the gate to greet the Hilltop scout. If he had to put it into words, he’d say it was a crossbreed between surprise and... amusement. Now that puzzled him. Was he humoring them in some way he was unaware? He did a super-quick check in the rearview mirror and found nothing funny in his attire or his face. In fact, he looked extra-fine today: hair combed, beard trimmed, new beanie, boots and trench coat dusted off; he always took care to look neat whenever he went to Alexandria to do trade, almost as if to impress a certain someone here. He looked down his arms again, suddenly recalling the weight in them. Right. The only thing out of the ordinary was the coal-back lump with its long furry tail winding around his arm.

“What?” Paul asked, seeing Michonne leaning towards Rick and whispering into his ears. Rick’s face contorted in an epically failed attempt to contain his laughter and maintain a straight face at the same time.

“Nothing.” It was Rick who answered.

Like hell it’s nothing, Paul thought. But he kept it to himself, waiting for Rick, or Michonne or Carol, to add anything. He was a patient man after all – a much needed virtue for someone who was nicknamed Jesus.

“Where did you find... that?” asked Rick, making vague gestures at the black lump in Paul’s arms.

As though understanding human words, said black lump perked up its pointy ears and then lifted its head, narrow blue eyes zeroing into Rick. The tail that had wrapped around Paul’s forearm unwinded and raised to form a big question mark. When Paul looked down, he was both surprised and intrigued by how expressive the creature was.

“This...” he began, “... well, I spotted it not too far outside the wall and brought it back on a whim. Didn’t know what had gotten into me. Anyone has any idea what sort of animal this is?”

When he first saw this black creature prowling in the bush, Paul was thoroughly dumbfounded because of all his thirty years of living, he had never seen anything like this. Generally it looked like a cat with its round head, triangular ears and lean, graceful limbs. The way it moved resembled a feline too, quickly and soundlessly – padded paws, he guessed. Its size was the odd thing though: bigger than an ordinary cat but smaller than a Labrador. Imagine a cat trying to evolve into a young black panther but failing and you’ll get the picture. Won over by his surging curiosity, Paul slowly approached the creature against his better judgment to just leave it alone. Perhaps it was because he had always had a soft spot for strays that he couldn’t help it when seeing one even though this was technically a wild animal, not a domestic one. It utterly baffled him how this wild cat-thing was so docile – even friendly in a weird sort of way: it didn’t scratch or bite his outstretched hand and it allowed him to tickle under its chin, purring softly as he did. He almost believed it must have been someone’s exotic pet before shit had hit the fan. And its eyes! When he looked into its blue eyes, oddly human for an animal despite the slit pupils, a sense of familiarity washed over him that he couldn’t quite understand. That was what sealed the deal and the next thing he knew, Paul had the creature clasped to his passenger seat by the seatbelt, its tail winding around his forearm, on his way to Alexandria. The animal had a penchant for it, it seemed, and Paul, being the pet lover, didn’t mind it one bit.

“It’s a _mangorath_ ,” said Rick.

“I’m sorry a-what?”

“A man-go-rath,” Carol enunciated.

The mangorath, according to Carol, scratched its claws at Paul’s leather sleeves soon as the last syllable left her lips. Sharp, just like a cat’s. Fearing that his favorite trench coat might get a tear, he shushed the creature, earning a complaint from it in the form of a soft growl. With his gloved hand Paul stroked behind its ears in a placating manner. It purred, clearly enjoying the treatment, which encouraged Paul to continue. Although separated by a thick layer of leather, he could tell how soft its ears were. Too absorbed in his indulgence that he didn’t notice the funny look Rick, Michonne and Carol were throwing his way.

“It’s a type of rare half-wild, half-domestic feline,” Carol continued.

“Half-wild, half-domestic?” Paul echoed.

“Means he can live in the wild but he can make for a good pet as well. Ah, that’s a he, by the way.”

It struck him as odd that Carol knew so much about this mangorath creature. Did she use to have one or had she been a zoologist before all this shit?

“How can you tell?”

Carol just shrugged as a means of saying she knew stuff that he didn’t know and he just had to take her words for it, which he did because Paul’s knowledge of this rare species was a big fat zero. In fact, he’d never heard of it until today.

To be fair, his knowledge of the animal world wasn’t extensive either.

“Won’t your arms get tired holding him like that?” Michonne asked.

“Oh no,” Paul replied, “he’s actually a lot lighter than he looks. You wanna try?”

That wasn’t the real reason though. Truth was, he held the mangorath because he was afraid that if he let him down, the feline would run off at once, to wherever he had come from. And Paul, being selfish and hyper-aware of it, did not want that. It wasn’t every day that he happened to come across a rare animal which didn’t try to bite his hand off when he tried to pet it.

The female samurai shook her head. “I’ll pass. Allergic to furs.”

“Right. Anyone in Alexandria interested in keeping a pet?”

Paul’s thought was directed to the Grimes household, specifically to the adolescent Carl Grimes, who was carrying lots of emotional baggage. The troubled youth had been through a lot and perhaps keeping a pet would do him some good.

“Why don’t you keep him? He seems awfully agreeable with you. May even like you.”

For some reason only they knew, Michonne sniggered at her boyfriend’s suggestion. Carol brought a hand to her mouth, obviously trying to cover a grin. OK, this was seriously bugging Paul. There had to be something here that he didn’t know and they had no intention to tell him either, preferring to keep it for themselves. Some private Alexandrian joke?

The mangorath stirred and scratched his arm.

“Oh no,” Paul said, shaking his head ruefully, “I don’t think I can keep a pet. As you know, I live in a tiny trailer, which I’m absent from most of the day.”

It wasn’t the first time Paul had run into a stray on his supply run. His first instinct had always been keeping them, feeding them, giving them a shelter from the sun and the rain and the horde of flesh-gnawing monsters. Yet when he thought about his living condition and routine, about how little time he had for himself, the best he could do was heave a sign and find a household who was interested in, and more importantly, capable of caring for an extra member in their family. And that was what he was trying to do here, in Alexandria, finding a home for this strange creature which he had grown oddly increasingly fond of.

“He’s mostly self-sufficient,” Carol quickly assured. “You don’t even have to feed him or wash him. He doesn’t like washing anyway. He’ll keep the rodents off your trailer...”

“And probably brings you some for dinner,” Michonne added, chuckling. “If you don’t mind dining on squirrels, that is.”

Paul heard the mangorath let out a throaty growl and couldn’t tell whether he agreed or disagreed with the badass samurai. On the other hand, he felt indistinctly like a wavering customer being pressured to purchase a pet he was unsure if he should have by three cunning shop owners. Alone, each was fearsome in their way. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with. He felt himself losing already.

“Finders, keepers,” said the Alexandrian leader. And just like that, the argument ended: the responsibility to care for the mangorath fell into the Hilltop scout’s laps.

...

After all the unloading and uploading of goods was done, which was in the late afternoon, Paul set to return to Hilltop, finding no reason to dally as a certain hunter had left Alexandria and wasn’t likely to come home for days. Feeling a stone sink in his guts, Paul placed the mangorath in the passenger’s seat, clasped the seatbelt around his body just so the feline wouldn’t jump around in the truck and got them both killed in an accident before settling into the driver’s seat.

Watching the truck leaving the gate with her arms crossing on her chest, Carol turned to Rick. “You sure it’s a good idea because I’m sure I’m not ready to deal with Daryl’s tantrum once he gets back.”

Rick merely shrugged. “You saw it yourself. I’m sure he’ll thank us when he’s back.”

“After he throws a tantrum,” Michonne deadpanned.

“After he throws a tantrum,” Rick echoed, grinning.

...

“So... How about... Wolverine?”

Water splashing right into his face was what Paul got as a reply from the ill-mannered mangorath.

“Bad cat! Very bad cat!” Paul chided, wiping his face with the back of his sudsed hand. The soap that accidentally got into his nose made him sneeze loudly.

Sitting in a basin in Paul’s tiny bathroom, said bad cat was wagging his long, soaked tail in a lazy manner, no sign of contrite visible on his sharp feline features.

Soon as they arrived at Hilltop, Paul had immediately thought of giving his brand-new animal companion a thorough wash because hell, he was not going to have fleas in his bed. Unfortunately for him, the mangorath was a keen animal with a fierce dislike for washing – as Carol had kindly informed him – and before Paul extended his grip on him, the cat had sprung to his paws and dashed out of the truck. Hence a _tag, you’re it_ game between Jesus and the satanic black cat commenced, bringing laughter and mirthful tears to many a Hilltoper, including Maggie and Enid. In fact, Maggie had laughed so hard that Dr. Carson had to remind her to restrain herself a little so as not to cause any unpleasant effect on her recovery process. By the time he had had his hand on the cuff of the mangorath’s neck (much help from a couple of children), he was bathed in sticky sweats and very much in need of a wash himself.

After he finished washing the stubborn feline first.

This chasing game had Paul become all reminiscent of his first meeting with a certain grumpy hunter. Not the best impression but undoubtedly memorable. Now he could fully sympathize with Daryl’s desire to give him a punch in the face after the scout had pretty much saved his ass from a walker’s bite. Not that he would punch the cat though; Paul was many things but never an abuser.

“But you need a name, right,” Paul tried to reason with his four-legged new buddy. “I can’t just call you ‘mangorath’ all day. How about ‘Magneto’?”

A mighty wave of the black tail once again had Paul wipe his face with his sleeve.

“Right, no comic superheroes then. How about _The Lord of the Ring_? Legolas maybe?”

Splash.

“Thranduil?”

Splash.

“Harry Potter? Severus Snape? Voldemort?!”

Splash. Splash. SPLASH.

At this point, Paul had come to an understanding that this was the mangorath’s response to his questions. Sweeping his wet hair back crudely, he said, “OK, I got your point. No fictional characters. How about Michael Jackson?”

Splash.

“Right... Norman Reedus?”

There was no water attack but the mangorath had also turned his head away, finding the pastel wall of the bathroom more interesting than his human’s visage. If it wasn’t an “I don’t care” than Paul didn’t know what it was.

“Come on,” Paul pled, rubbing the soft sponge along his spine, “one last try, OK. After that I’ll just call you ‘Mango’ for short.”

The cat turned his head back, looking at Paul with his impossibly blue, round eyes. Good. He seemed to catch his attention.

“How about...” A moment of hesitation. “... Daryl?”

Paul anticipated another strike, but it didn’t come. The mangorath lowered his head and rested it on the edge of the basin’s edge. He purred.

Feeling triumphant, Paul grinned widely. “Daryl it is.”

...

Living with the mangorath turned out to be simpler than Paul had thought. True to Carol’s words – he had to thank her the next time they met, the feline was mostly self-sufficient and actually required little care. When Paul was on his supply run or scouting mission, ‘Daryl’ went with him, trailing behind him like a faithful shadow if he was on foot or sitting quietly with the seat belt tight around his body if Paul took the truck. While Paul was at Hilltop helping around, ‘Daryl’ explored on his own. The first time he had done it, Paul had nearly freaked out, thinking his animal companion had deserted him and gone off to be a walker’s dinner, but before Paul had officially lost it, he showed up at the trailer’s door, a freshly dead squirrel in his jaw. From then on, whenever ‘Daryl’ disappeared for a few hours, Paul expected to find some dead games presented on the floor of his trailer like some sort of proud trophy.

Not that Paul was going to skin and eat those poor creatures though. He was mostly shit at skinning, as Daryl – the human one, of course – had not-so-kindly pointed out during a night they had had to camp outside Alexandria. So he was content to let his feline buddy savor his catches and cleared the remains – not that there were many – afterwards. On the days that ‘Daryl’ didn’t feel like hunting or was just plain unlucky, Paul shared his portion of food with him, and was fascinatingly surprised to see the predator stoically chow down pasta and salads. Definitely omnivorous, he thought. Another interesting point to note.

Two weeks had passed since he took the mangorath to Hilltop, during which he had done trade with Alexandria thrice. To his utter disappointment, not once had he been able to see the grumpy hunter, who had been “away for hunting” – Rick’s words. Bad timing, perhaps?

“I do miss him you know,” Paul said while drawing little circles behind the cat’s ear. He was sitting on his worn couch in his trailer, enjoy a humid, quiet evening. “The other ‘Daryl’. Maybe we weren’t meant to be and that’s how fate’s telling me. Hah, not that we have much of a chance anyway. The guy’s probably straight. I mean, he fits the type, right?”

Curling on Paul’s laps, ‘Daryl’ purred, his long tail winding around Paul’s forearm as he looked his human in the eyes.

“Sappy, I know.” said Paul, shaking his head ruefully.

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

Paul retired to bed that night like every other night, with a bigger-than-normal cat occupying the remaining space of his single bed. He believed he should wake up in the morning like every other morning, with or without said cat – sometimes ‘Daryl’ slept in, sometimes he didn’t. Certainly he didn’t expect to open his eyes to the sight of an arm draping across his chest, not in the loving ‘hold me, touch me’ way but in the unsexy and discomforting way. He blinked, stared at the arm for a few seconds, then blinked again, and again, and again. Still, the arm remained his reality, not his imagination. The weight felt very real though, making breathing a slightly more difficult task. He tried to rake his sleep-fogged brain for any indication that he had taken someone to his bed last night, and after a long while rummaging through the clutter of his memories, he came to a sad, disappointing conclusion that he hadn’t done that in years. His only bed companion was a four-legged animal that should be taking the space next to him. Alert coursing through him like electric current, Paul whipped his head to the side and saw a sleeping face.

It took all his restraint not to scream because said sleeping face belonged to the one and only Daryl Dixon. The human, grumpy one. As he dared to scan down Daryl’s form, the skin of his face was cooked by the heat of horror and arousal. His heartbeat went from 75 to 150 in a quarter of a minute, nearly giving him a heart attack. On his bed Daryl was curling in a fetal position, his shoulders bare, his arms bare, his _entire_ body bare to Paul’s scrutiny.

Paul pinched his side hard, he just had to, and was barely able to muffle his yelp into the pillow. He needed to ensure this wasn’t a dream because it looked very much like a dream, a wet dream actually, one that left him panting and aching and needy in the middle of the night whether he was in his own tiny trailer or the room Rick had provided him in Alexandria, conveniently just a few strides from the dweller of the unsuspecting culprit of his predicament.

That Daryl was lying naked on his bed was not a dream but the reality, he told himself, feeling the soft warmth of his breath ghosting against his face since they were so close, noses almost touching. He took several quick breaths, trying to calm his overexcited heart. Daryl’s sleeping face helped a great deal too. In his slumber, the man looked breathtakingly peaceful, his perpetual scowl gone, his lines smoothed out and his sharp, slanted eyes hidden behind closed eyelids. His eyelashes weren’t particularly long but their length and curves put the finishing touch to the picture of Daryl’s visage. Paul subconsciously held his breath as he swallowed.

Something black on top of Daryl’s head twitched, catching Paul’s attention. Curious, Paul extended his head to shyly touch it. Silky fur and a familiar softness graced the tips of his fingers. Paul gasped in silence. Was it... an ear? Moreover, not a human ear but a cat ear!

Emboldened by his shock, Paul gave the ear a light tug to test whether it was an ornament (though chance that Daryl would wear any ornaments on his head, let alone cat ears, was a mighty zero) and would come off. It didn’t. Moreover it felt firmly attached to his skull as if a part of him. A part of him! Something in Paul’s brain clicked and thoughts started whirring in his head. Daryl was lying on his bed. The mangorath, which should be in his place, was nowhere in sight (except that Daryl might have crushed him with his weight but it was too absurd Paul didn’t even want to consider it). Daryl had cat ears on his head. Pointy and warm and soft to the touch. Like a certain mangorath’s. Daryl had mangorath ears. Daryl was part mangorath. Daryl _was_ the mangorath!

Paul grimaced as a headache started pounding in his skull. How his brain had come up with such a conclusion and actually convinced him that it made some sense was beyond his comprehension. Morning drowsiness caused funny thoughts. He needed an aspirin or an explanation. Maybe both. Definitely both.

Daryl’s ear twitched again and Paul couldn’t help touching it again, relishing the sensation transmitted from the tips of his fingers to his brain. As he did, he began to think he might have developed cat-ear fetish and it mortified him tremendously; it wasn’t right to think that way about his ally, his friend, especially someone as stoic as Daryl Dixon. But if he didn’t tell, no-one, certainly not Daryl, would know, right? He just had to keep his less proper thoughts to himself and behave normally around the hunter, didn’t he?

Paul’s heart almost stopped when Daryl’s eyes suddenly opened, glacially blue with black slit pupils like a cat’s. During their time of acquaintance, he had observed and learned many things about the hunter, both in his features and manners, but he never knew that Daryl possessed cat eyes and eyes were the very first thing he took notice about Daryl, or any individual he met. The hunter’s eyes were narrow, blue and magnetically drew Paul in every time they locked gaze and most importantly, they were unmistakably human. Now those eyes had changed and they were staring at him unblinkingly. The mangorath often stared at him in the same way, with the same eyes, once again confirming Paul’s crazy theory that Daryl and the feline were one and the same.

Daryl let out a small whimpering sound that was more cat than human.

Paul sat upright as though being electrocuted and rushed to his drawer. He searched frantically for a shirt and a pair of pants that were Daryl’s size. Not once had he looked behind his back to see that Daryl had also sat up, stretched his muscles and was watching Paul piling up a small hill of clothes on the floor with his curious cat eyes.

“What yer doin’?”

“Finding some clothes for you,” Paul replied without thinking. Tch. Wasn’t that obvious? Then, amidst the hassle and embarrassment his brain actually stopped for a moment to think and realization sank in like a boulder. “What?! You can talk?!”

“‘Cuz I can talk,” Daryl retorted, his voice taking a higher pitch than usual. It sounded odd,… younger. “When couldn’t I?”

“I thought... Never mind.”

Coming back to his bed, Paul handed him a navy-blue shirt, a pair of dark jeans and a pair of black boxers. He looked anywhere but Daryl’s toned chest, uncovered and presented to his sight like a tantalizing treat. Daryl eyed the articles with suspicion.

“These haven’t been worn yet,” Paul felt the need to assure him. “A size too big for me.”

With that, he left the clothes on the bed and strode out of the door, giving Daryl his privacy. He closed the door behind his back.

...

The sky was still a peach-lavender hue. Paul leaned against the side of the trailer in only his cotton white shirt and sweatpants, taking quick, shallow breaths to calm his racing heart and clear his head. He supposed he ought to be thinking because this was the kind of situation that required thinking but he just couldn’t. Occupying his mind was the image of Daryl sporting a pair of cat ears and it kind of effectively blocked all other thoughts. He honestly had no idea what he should say to the Alexandrian hunter when he went back inside the trailer. Ask why he had transformed into an animal? Why he had turned back into human, sans the ears and eyes? What, too straightforward? Should he beat around the bush then?

The door to his trailer creaked open and Paul took that at his cue to come inside. His eyes swept over Daryl, who was sitting with his back against the wall, his knees hunched up to his chest, and he found relief in the sight of the hunter fully clothed. Less distracting if they wanted, actually needed, to have a serious talk about what was going on here. He looked somewhat bashful. Paul’s eyebrows hitched up to see a long, black... tail relaxing on the mattress. There was a pair of scissors on the multi-purpose table by the bed.

Daryl followed his gaze and lowered his head to hide the blush blossoming on his cheeks. “Sorry, can’t keep that in my pants. Cumbersome.”

Paul sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. “It’s OK. You can keep the clothes. They don’t fit me anyway.” He made a vague gesture to the tail, Daryl’s tail. “I think I deserve some sort of explanation here.”

“Figured ya’d figured out on yer own already.”

“No I didn’t. All things seem to point out to me that you are my – what, mangorath pet, which ranks top in my list of most absurd things of this year, and that is something because we’re living in the world where the dead don’t stay dead. How is that even possible, beats me.”

“Not yer pet,” Daryl bleated.

“Well your family kinda sold you to me as such. Sorry I took their offer.”

Daryl made a low growl in his throat. He was displeased, Paul could tell. Clearly that hadn’t been his idea.

“ ‘m a shapeshifter,” said Daryl after a stretched moment. “Means I can change into an animal and back.”

Oh. That was the straightforward answer Paul had wanted but not expected to get from the tight-lipped hunter. Again, from the time he’d gotten acquainted with him, Paul knew Daryl to be the type not to beat around the bush. If he could use five words to express something, he certainly wouldn’t use six. And the explanation he gave made absolutely no sense and perfect sense at the same time. A shapeshifter in a world where the dead moved around? Not too far-fetched at all.

“I understand what a shapeshifter means but not how you can do that and why you haven’t changed back until now.”

“Dunno how,” Daryl replied, shrugging. “Was born that way I guess. ‘s in the blood. Comes at certain times o’ the year. Can’t control it, can’t do nothin’ ‘bout it.”

Paul nodded sympathetically. “Involuntary shapeshifter, I see. It must be real inconvenient.”

“Ya bet,” Daryl snorted.

Paul recalled the time when they had run away from the Sanctuary together. If Daryl could change his form freely, he would have escaped by himself long before Paul jumped off the truck’s roof and landed in Negan’s territory. Paul wondered what good it was being a shapeshifter who was unable to shapeshift at will. So far he only saw drawbacks. But of course he wouldn’t say it aloud in front of Daryl’s face; the man didn’t need someone to tell him it sucked being the way he was.

A bit lost in his musing, Paul let his hand inch closer and closer towards Daryl’s tail, driven by a subconscious desire to stroke it – a habit he had sort of formed during the last week. However, Daryl was one step quicker: his tail curled and retreated behind his back in a flash.

“Sorry,” Paul mumbled, face flushed. “Just a habit is all. Were you aware of everything when you were in that form? Do you remember anything?”

“I remember bits and bobs but not everythin’. Somethin’ the matter?”

A sense of relief and deflation filled Paul up at the same time.

“You don’t remember some of your behaviors... like demanding belly rubs, chasing the squirrels, stealing meat from the kitchen, et cetera?”

A hint of red spread upward Daryl’s neck. He shook his head. “While ‘m in that form, sometimes the animal instincts take over. Nothin’ too embarrassin’?”

“No, never mind,” Paul said, scratching his head. “How long before your... your eyes and ears turn back to normal?”

“Takes some time before ‘m fully human, two days normally, three at most.”

“Your family, do they know about your... special condition?”

“Cut yer euphemism,” Daryl grunted. “Ain’t necessary. Rick an’ Carol found out, then Rick told Michonne.”

Somehow Paul could picture the three of them throwing back their heads and laughing like a scene in _George of the Jungle_ , pulling a prank on their brother like that. His family loved him to bits, there was no doubt, but they also had a really twisted sense of humor.

“Well, in the meantime, you can stay here until you change back,” Paul offered. “I don’t mind having a roomie.”

Daryl’s cat eyes peaked through his long bangs, his eyes perked as of showing Paul had gotten his full attention. “Ya sure ya don’t mind?”

“It’s not like you haven’t stayed here before. Besides, I can’t shoo you out of my trailer looking like this, can I?” Paul laughed in an attempt to mask nervousness spiking in his stomach all of sudden. Get a hold of yourself, Rovia. It was just two or three days; surely you can handle being in such close proximity with him without making a fool out of yourself and trampling your established friendship. Right?

“Thanks.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Paul said, waving his hand. “Now, what do you fancy for breakfast? I sincerely hope it’s not squirrels because I can’t find any this early in the morning.”

“Yer ridiculous,” Daryl grunted, but couldn’t keep a tiny smile from the corner of his lips.

_To be continued_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a mighty need to write cat!Daryl.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 5k+ smut to end this story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning of the smut, some of you may frown thinking it may be rape. I do take the matter of rape seriously and let me assure you, it is NOT rape. At all. It's totally consensual on both parties.

“What’s wrong? Is the food not to your liking?”

Paul asked with concern when he saw Daryl push away the bowl, barely touching its content. They were having pasta with tomato sauce tonight because Paul had received a fresh, juicy batch of tomatoes from Alan the gardener. Pasta was his best shot and he had hoped to impress Daryl. Though there were neither candles nor violin, having dinner together could be considered a date, right? Their _first_ date. Paul had kept himself amused with his little fantasy as he boiled and strained the pasta while keeping an eye on the pot of simmering sauce. To see Daryl wasn’t enjoying the food in the least brought forth a profound disappointment.

His fingers twiddling, Daryl hung his head low and avoided eye contact with Paul as he spoke, “Food’s fine, very delicious. ‘s just I don’t have an appetite right now. Sorry.”

Although he was awkwardly trying to hide his face, Paul with his keen eyes could clearly see the odd blushes on his cheeks. The glaring light bulb above their head helped, too. Strange. The night wasn’t hot, quite the opposite actually, it was rather chilly, being autumnal and all. Despite that, there were beads of sweat rolling down his neck and blotching his shirt’s collar. Concern growing in his stomach, Paul watched Daryl shuffle back to their temporary-shared bed. There was an unsteady sway in his gait and a light tremble in his limbs. His pert ears had flopped and his tail trailed limply on the floor.

Paul pushed the chair back and crossed a few feet to the bed. “You don’t look fine to me,” said Paul with stern voice. Without asking for Daryl’s permission, he swept Daryl’s bang back and pressed his palm to the hunter’s forehead. God, he felt like freshly baked bread. As expected, there were sweats sticking to his palm.

“High temperature, excessive perspiration...” Paul muttered, “You’re having a fever?”

Daryl weakly swatted Paul’s hand away. “ ‘m not. ‘s jus’ too hot in here. Need to get out for some fresh air’s all.”

Daryl briskly stood up but his wrist was caught in Paul’s firm hand. He tried to shake it off but despite his lean form, the scout’s strength was no joke. His grip wouldn’t slacken even a little bit. “Nonsense,” he scowled. “The night is getting cold and yet you’re feeling hot, meaning there’s something wrong.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with me.”

“Well, that doesn’t look like ‘nothing wrong’ to me. We should go to Dr. Carson and have him check you up.”

Daryl’s tone was dry. “Lookin’ like this?”

Paul bit the inside of his cheeks. He almost forgot Daryl wasn’t very keen on revealing his secret to more people than already had. Moreover, Dr. Carson was adept in treating humans; he doubted the good doctor had any experience in dealing with cat people.

Yes, cat people. Since “mangorath” was too cumbersome Paul had opted for “cat”. Mangoraths were a type of cats too, weren’t they?

“At least tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”

“ ‘s not somethin’ ya can help.”

Paul scoffed, feeling offended even though there was no ground reason for him to. Daryl’s problem might just be well out of his scope. Still, he disliked being dismissed like this without learning what was wrong first and in what way he might be able to offer his aid. It hinted at the hunter’s distrust of him, which twisted and twisted in the pit of his stomach until it became a heavy knot he couldn’t untie on his own. And there he thought they had gone passed that phrase. Paul crossed his arms in front of his chest, lifting his chin. “Oh, I believe I’m more capable than you give me credit for, Dixon.”

“Sure ya do, Mr. Know-All,” Daryl snorted.

That one liner was the last straw.

“I’m just trying to show that I care, OK,” Paul snapped, his voice louder than he would normally like, close to a shout. “Look what I’ve got: a hostile attitude like I’m being a nuisance.”

“Who asks ya to care anyway?” Daryl retorted, voice equally loud.

The seams of Paul’s lips curved into a smirk. “No one really,” he said, “but you’re a valuable ally of Hilltop and a dear friend of Maggie—”

“What great sense of responsibility ya’ve.”

Paul continued, unfazed by Daryl’s cutting him off, “and because I regard you as a friend who I can trust my back to in battles. If I didn’t trust you, I’d have kicked you out of the trailer the moment I saw you turn back.”

He locked gaze with Daryl, huge blue eyes glinting with muted challenge. Challenge Daryl to use his abrasive demeanor to defy that, to deny the bond that had been formed and reinforced between them over their time of acquaintance, whatever it was. Stubbornly Daryl glared at him with slit eyes, refusing to back down from challenge. His flopped ears had perked up, and his tail raised and wagged. Dogs wagged their tail when they were happy but cats did when they got angry – a tidbit of knowledge about animals Paul had gathered from books. The scout imagined Daryl wanted to bare his fangs and hiss – like the few furious cats he had seen – but had to restrain himself from displaying more animalistic behaviors than he already had. The blushes on his cheeks darkened, by anger or whatever was riding his nerves. Sparks flew in the dense air between them, the tension rising, simmering, bubbling, condensed; the tiny trailer became one huge balloon with too much hot air, waiting to burst.

Paul was about to open his mouth and burst the balloon – damn it, he was so not enthusiastic in a staring contest – when his vision experienced a horizontal shift. He should thank God there was a mattress beneath him when Daryl pounced on him in one swift movement; otherwise he would have had hit his head on something and gotten a concussion. It was safe to say Paul hadn’t expected this turn of event at all; a punch to his jaw, yes, he had anticipated it and even envisioned how he would dodge or counter, but this, not at all. He gasped in genuine shock, temporarily unable to comprehend the situation and commence proper reaction when Daryl climbed on top of him, straddling him. His thighs squeezing either side of Paul’s waist, Daryl bent down until their foreheads were inches from touching. Paul’s eyes opened so wide it hurt, enraptured by the blazing blue irises and slit pupils up close. Later he would claim that they possessed hypnotizing attributes.

“Ya wanna know what’s wrong?” Daryl roared – he fucking did, like a lion or tiger. “ ‘m fuckin’ in heat an’ yer scent’s drivin’ me insane. Bein’ in a tight space with ya drives me insane. I want to fuck ya senseless and that’s what wrong!”

Paul’s brain was racing to compute the meaning of Daryl’s words – he’d heard them perfectly fine alright but he was completely stunt by how raw and blunt they were as they had come out of the normally reserved hunter. His jaw slackened but no sounds were made. He lay very still, his need to breath temporarily forgotten as astonishment filled him. Out of sudden the sound of fabric ripping tore at his eardrums, snapping him out of his trance. What the—? He glanced down just in time to see a button flying into the air and his chest revealed to the hungry eyes of the cat man. R. I. P his favorite shirt, he moaned internally.

Paul couldn’t believe this was happening. To be pinned down to a surface (the mattress was a welcome luxury) by a weight on top of him and have his shirt ripped in the ravenous desire to get him naked was the wildest of his wild fantasies, reserved for the spectacularly lonely and horny nights, emphasis on the latter. However, his fantasies had involved a faceless man since he had had no particular object of infatuation – hadn’t had anyone for a long while. Until recently. The faceless man had gradually taken features: matted dark hair, narrow blue eyes, a beauty spot above his upper lip. Sometimes his fantasies had been so intense it caused Paul to subconsciously avert his eyes from the Alexandrian hunter the following day; he’d rather die than have Daryl know that he was harboring such impure thoughts about him. Nonetheless, this wasn’t a wild fantasy; this was very real and happening. Paul couldn’t decide if this was a most awesome stroke of luck or a foreshadowing of his impending doom as whoever up above had decided to allow him a wild ride before he officially kicked the bucket the very next morning.

Positive thinking, Paul Rovia, he reminded himself.

All of his jumbled thoughts were cut short by a sharp wedge of pleasure when a tongue licked a lengthy stride from the dip between his clavicles to his naval. Being caught entirely off-guard, Paul exhaled a sharp breath and then bit his tongue as the prickling sensation of stubbles on his areolar shot to his brain. Lips closed around his nipple like a hungry pup latching on its mother’s teat and tongue, the same tongue that had raised goosebumps on his skin, lavished the hardening nub. Gosh, his tongue! He had learned from a discovery show that the texture of a feline’s tongue was very different from a human’s and had had a cat licked his hand a few times before but never once had he imagined how it would feel on one of his erroneous zones! He was sure he’d remember it till the day he died.

So... Daryl had cat ears, eyes, tail and tongue. Paul wondered, with intrigued apprehension, what else on Daryl’s anatomy resembled that of a feline’s. He considered himself explorative but he couldn’t be sure he could handle it. And yes, he had enough brain cells left to figure where all of this was heading. It was very unlikely someone ripped your shirt in half and proceeded to lick your nipple and just wanted to cuddle innocently on the bed like five-year-olds. Plus, Daryl had said (more like yelled) that he was “in heat” and as far as he was concerned, that had only one meaning.

Never had Paul imagined their first time, if there was ever a first time, would be a mating. While he didn’t know how he should feel about it, he was sure he was very excited by the prospect. That his jeans had been reduced by one size at certain area was evidence.

Daryl spread his fingers across the firm plane of Paul’s abdomen while his mouth began to give the other nipple the same attention its twin had. Paul squirmed beneath him, trying to gain some friction through layers of clothing. It simply wasn’t enough. “Ouch,” he cried, feeling a sharp sting below his ribs. His cry seemed to wake Daryl from his lust-haze, for the cat man lifted his torso and stared at Paul with wide eyes, filled with something like horror. Instantly alarmed by his bewildering behavior, Paul sat up a little, looked down his body and sighed in understanding. There were three pink diagonal slashes from his ribs to his navel. Cats loved to scratch, whether they were angered or excited, and well, Daryl was a cat person with cat-like features. This shouldn’t be surprising at all.

“ ‘m sorry...” Daryl mumbled, voice shaking and brittle.

“It’s alright,” Paul assured him, fingering the marks. “Just some scratches. I’ve had worse.” He wasn’t lying; the marks stung but not enough to cause pain; they were mild annoyance at best.

“ ‘m sorry,” Daryl repeated, more desperately this time. “ ‘m really sorry.” His taut shoulders were shaking.

Then he clambered off Paul and appeared to be ready to bolt out of the trailer.

It took about three seconds for Paul to realize Daryl wasn’t just sorry about scratching him. He grunted in frustration and before Daryl had the chance to deal with the situation in his distinctively _Dixonian_ way – meaning running away and possibly never showing his face to the Hilltop scout ever again, Paul got enough time to grab him by his tail.

Not his most elegant move but it worked. Daryl stood as still as a statue. His ears flattened on the sides of his head, black fur blending with dark hair.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Paul scowled.

A multitude of questions paraded through stormy blue eyes, so blindingly fast he couldn’t catch any of it. Paul almost felt pity for the man. Daryl’s jaw moved as if he wanted to open his mouth and say something, but then nothing came out. Paul could practically hear the gears inside his head grinding together to come up with something. He waited, his grip on Daryl’s tail not loosening, but even he could feel his patience was wearing as thin as a paper; it was difficult to remain patient when you were having a raging hard-on, but Paul tried, forced himself to because if he didn’t, he would lose the man for good.

“Outside,” he spoke at last. “I’ll sleep outside.”

Paul’s eyes were huge like goose eggs. “Looking like this?” he echoed Daryl’s earlier words, gesturing to the tail in his hand. His rhetorical question implied a fact Daryl had already learned during his time here: there were always a couple Hilltopers working late-night shifts who would pass Paul’s trailer on their way home and there was high chance they might spot a man with feline features. Just imagine the chaos.

Daryl was muted.

“Leaving me like this?” Paul went on.

Daryl’s eyes wandered down Paul’s torso to the visible bulge in his crotch and immediately averted his eyes. Paul licked his lower lip, feeling weirdly satisfied to see the cat man’s face reddened like the pasta they’d had.

“Ya’ll regret it,” he mumbled, just barely enough for Paul to hear.

“Oh, don’t say what I will and won’t, Dixon. You’re not me.”

“Feels like ‘m forcin’ ya into this, or worse, rap—”

“Don’t say that word,” Paul cut him sharply. “You really think you can force me into something I don’t want?” He laughed wryly. “That wounds me, really, that you think so little of me, that I’m incapable of at least defending myself. You and Rick don’t call me a ninja hippie for nothing.”

Paul’s hand let go of his tail to land on his chest. He flattened his palm against Daryl’s heart, feeling its frantic beats beneath the thin cotton fabric. Well, at least his heart was more honest than himself. Going on tiptoe, he captured Daryl’s lips in a chaste kiss. This would either make it or break it so Paul was extremely carefully. He kept it chaste so as not to shock Daryl but firm to convey to the man how determined he was in this matter. Assurance was what this man with a painfully low self-esteem desperately needed; he needed not only to know but also to _feel_ that it was okay, that he wasn’t forcing or hurting anyone, that he was _accepted_. Paul’s heart ached for him as he kissed him.

Taken by surprise, Daryl stood absolutely motionless.

“Is this enough consent for you?” asked Paul once they parted.

A guttural snarl was his reply, and then Paul was sprawled on his back again, with a familiar weight on top of him. Guess that was a yes, he mused, before any musing thoughts were washed away by a tongue lapping at his skin. The same tongue with the bizarre and stimulating texture. This time it wasn’t his nipple but the scratches below his ribs. It stung a little but mostly it just tickled him. His skin there was notoriously ticklish and he really couldn’t help the giggles that rang in the quiet confined space. Sometimes he giggled like a little girl, he was aware. Daryl, however, was unaffected by Paul’s reactions, absorbed in his diligent task of ‘treating’ the injuries inflicted by himself. Another cat-like behavior which Paul really couldn’t complain. Tiny sparks were ignited inside him, quickly feeding to the center heat between his thighs. His jeans were very much in the way and he yearned to get rid of them.

Perhaps Paul’s desire was telepathically transmitted to Daryl because his hand stalked to the waistband of his pants and he started undoing the buttons and zipper with all the deftness and grace of a feline without disrupting his current task on Paul’s stomach. Cats, big and small, were smart creatures and Paul imagined this task would be easy as cake for them if they were to have hands and fingers instead of paws and claws. Well, this was a cat with hands in place of paws. Still, that was as far as grace went because soon as the button came undone and the zipper down, Daryl hooked his fingers on both Paul’s pants and underwear and just yanked them past his knees, effectively rendering the Hilltop scout from remotely appropriate to decidedly indecent in one go. Not that Paul minded though; rather, he encouraged Daryl’s act by lifting his long, slender legs and kicking the garments out to land haphazardly somewhere beside the bed.

Daryl hovered above his exposed member, proudly in full mast, and looked at Paul as if asking for some sort of permission to proceed. The Hilltoper gave him a tender smile marred by just the slightest hint of smug and buckled his hips; he wanted Daryl to see, or rather, _feel_ the effect of what he had inflicted upon him. And perhaps that should be enough incentive for Daryl’s next move. Delightful anxiety rose in Paul’s stomach. Daryl was truly unpredictable and although he had lead Paul from one surprise to the next, Paul had an inkling he hadn’t reached his quota yet. The night was still young, and Paul had time to spare.

Paul gasped audibly when he felt the peculiar texture of Daryl’s cat tongue on him, this time not on his nipple or his stomach skin but directly on his pulsing member. It wasn’t a surprise he had anticipated but that didn’t mean it was any less welcoming. Daryl started at the root, a few swift strokes at first to test the waters, and then moved in smooth glides along the length to the tip. His tongue swirled around the head, lapping the sensitive skin there and eliciting a couple of ragged breaths from Paul, before flicking at the slit as if carefully tasting the early dews swelling from which. Paul’s fingers threaded into Daryl’s shaggy hair, finding the ears and scratching them with his blunt nails while Daryl worked on him. If Paul still had any intellectual capacity left, he’d describe Daryl’s technique, or lack-thereof, as very similar to a cat savoring its favorite treat; still, all of his focus now was on processing the toe-curling sensation from between his legs and how skilled Daryl was in giving head. Yet, there might be a chance the man might not be experienced in this expertise at all – he was just guided by his instincts and who would disagree that cats had excellent instincts? Certainly not Paul.

Finally Daryl had played enough, intentionally or not, and took Paul into his mouth. All thoughts seemed to fade for a moment as Paul squeezed his eyes shut and lost himself in the warm and wet cavern of his mouth.

In that moment, he wouldn’t have any regret if tomorrow was his doom.

“Mind your fangs, please,” Paul breathed upon feeling a grazing of sharp teeth along his shaft. Daryl’s hummed softly, contrite or defiance unsure, but he was more careful with his sharper-than-average teeth, which Paul was grateful for. He wasn’t a fan of pleasure mingled with pain after all.

Daryl didn’t finish what he’d started and let go off Paul with an obscene ‘pop’. Paul might have verbally complained if he were naive enough to not know Daryl’s intention. He wanted penetrative intercourse, and that was fine by Paul as long as they worked out their position. Since Daryl was quite literally a predator, Paul assumed he was a top – seemed natural that way. So was Paul, in most encounters, but being quite versatile in the matter of passion, he didn’t mind switching, especially when his partner was Daryl. He had immensely enjoyed the few times he had bottomed for his other partners; as a matter of fact, each time had left him wondering why he didn’t bottom more often.

“Let me help you,” Paul offered, his hands eagerly undoing the button of Daryl’s pants while the man fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. He retained enough self-control to not ruin the shirt like he had done Paul’s unfortunate one since it was borrowed. Their hands moved almost in tandem and by the time the shirt had joined the small heap of clothes on the floor, Daryl could shimmy out of his pants and boxers. Then there was no barrier to obstruct Paul’s appreciation of him. Like his fantasies, Daryl was well-built, just the right balance of hard, toned muscles and soft flesh promising gentleness to the touch. So Paul touched him, running his palm along Daryl’s body like Daryl had done to him, and halted as he reached the heat between the man’s legs, thankfully very human. Paul let out a mental sigh of relief and began to gauge Daryl’s size using both his eyes and hand. To accommodate this size, he would need some preparation. He only hoped the lube he kept in his drawer hadn’t expired yet. And the condoms too, while he was at it.

Twisting his torso, he reached for the small nigh table lodged between the bed and the wall but Daryl stopped him by pinning his hips to the bed with his large hands. Well, Paul could fight, yet he didn’t, puzzled by Daryl’s intention. It would be much easier if Daryl would just talk, but the cat man appeared to deem any sounds coming out of his lips other than words sufficient for communication. He gave Paul’s length a few quick strokes before situating himself above the scout.

 _Uh oh_. Paul knew what Daryl intended to do. “No,” he protested, his voice edged with haste, “let me prep you first or else you’ll be hurt.”

Daryl didn’t reply. A stoic expression masking his face, he gingerly sunk down Paul’s shaft. Soon as his tip went past Daryl’s entrance, blissfully not as tight as he’d imagined and surprisingly slick – as though he had found the time to prepare himself, Paul choked on the words he was about to say. Literally choked on them. Another huge surprise he didn’t see coming. His mental capabilities were reduced to just be able to feel the warm and wet tightness clenching around his length inch by delicious, torturous inch. Tenacious as always, Daryl made no attempt to stop until he was fully sheathed and settled on Paul’s thighs. Both froze, prioritizing the fundamental need to find their breaths first.

“You’re alright?” asked Paul, brushing back Daryl’s long, damp fringes. “Did I hurt you?”

Letting a whiny breath, Daryl nodded and then shook his head as if he couldn’t decide which should be the answer. He bent down, munching on Paul’s lips while his lower half was motionless for several seconds. Paul happily obliged him even though the pleasure spiking up his spine was one step from driving him crazy. He suckled Daryl’s lower lip, tugging the fleshy part between his teeth, all of the previous chasteness gone. His tongue entered Daryl’s mouth, found Daryl’s own and coerced it into a sensuous tango. It was both the same and different to feel the texture of Daryl’s tongue with his own rather than his skin. He thought he tasted himself faintly in Daryl’s mouth. Saliva dribbled down the sides of their mouths but both were too far gone to care.

It seemed an eternity when their mouths parted, connected only by a slim silvery string. Daryl placed both hands on Paul’s hips and began moving, erratically and slowly to test his adjustment. Paul threw his head back, inhaling deeply. It didn’t take long until the hunter found and established a rhythm and pace that matched his burning need, which, of course, suited Paul’s as well. And then, there was nothing stopping him from chasing the pleasure to his heart’s desire.

Things were a tad hazy afterward, and Paul didn’t recall much detail besides ragged breaths, loud moans and maddening pleasure coursing through his entire body, head to toe. Paul’s rickety bed groaned with their combined weight and movements and in hindsight, Paul was thankful he lived in a trailer and thus having no neighbors; otherwise they would clearly hear his debauchery. It wasn’t that he was ashamed or anything; he just didn’t fancy gossips in a tight-knit community such as Hilltop. The two of them reached their peaks almost simultaneously, a rather impressive feat for their first time as far as Paul was concerned. While Paul coated Daryl’s inside with his seeds, Daryl spilled his on their stomachs and the sheets underneath them, and marked Paul with an impressive love bite on his collarbone that would take days to fade. Not that Paul minded getting a quaint souvenir to remember their heated ride; if someone inquired he’d just blame the cat – nothing sort of truth. The hunter’s face as he orgasmed was the most vivid memory in Paul’s mind because of its sheer beauty and perfection. Paul thought he had fallen in love. Scratch it. He was already head over heels in love with Daryl Dixon and this was the very first time he had felt so strongly and intensely with a man that his previous relationships seemed ephemeral and insignificant. It was as though he had never known love until he knew Daryl. He sincerely hoped this was not a one-time thing and that it would blossom into something meaningful and lasting.

...

The sheets were sticky with sweats and come and permitted a funny smell. Paul used his torn shirt to wipe the come off his and Daryl’s bodies. Doing the laundry should be on top of his agenda tomorrow but right now, all he yearned for was snuggling with Daryl and drifting off into a blissful sleep. The former was already fulfilled as the cat man’s arm was draping across his chest and his naked limbs were tangled with Paul’s underneath the sheet. His head was tugging beneath Paul’s chin while his tail moved lazily and disorientedly, tickling Paul’s calf. Paul stroked the roots of his flopped ears, earning low satisfied purrs from the hunter. Paul was certain he’d miss both the ears and the purrs once Daryl turned back into full human.

“You OK? Any sores?”

He recalled the haste penetration with no prep and heaved a sign. “Next time let me prep you first, OK? Don’t want you to feel any pain.”

Wait, had he already planned a next time while the outcome of this time was still pretty much uncertain.

“ ‘s fine,” Daryl replied, voice tired and sleepy. “My body has its own way of preparation, consider that a perk. Only minor sores. Though I may be walkin’ funny tomorrow.”

Sex appeared to make Daryl more loquacious, Paul noted. “Good thing you don’t have to leave this trailer until all of these are gone.”

“Sorry.”

Paul’s chest felt tight due to Daryl’s apologetic tone. “If you’re apologizing for tearing my shirt then apology accepted,” Paul said. “I’m well compensated anyway.”

“ ‘s not jus’ the shirt an’ ya know that.”

“I already told you that this thing between us was totally consensual. For the last time you didn’t force yourself on me.”

“I pushed ya down an’ tore yer shirt forcefully.”

“And I could have kicked you in the nuts and thrown you out,” Paul blurted out, without thinking. “Do you... do you metaphorically self-flagellate every time this happens?”

Paul felt Daryl tense against his body. Shit. Damn his stupid mouth. He could tell he’d poked a sensitive spot. No one liked being reminded that they periodically turned into animal, went in heat and fucked the nearest creature with legs.

Apparently Daryl hadn’t run out his surprise quota of the day (or month) because after a quiet moment, he mumbled, “With ya was my first time.”

“What? You mean you haven’t... Don’t tell me it’s the first time you turn into a cat!”

“Mangorath.”

“Mangorath, right. What’s with that name anyway? It sounds like ‘mango’ and ‘wrath’. An angry fruit?!”

“Carol came up with it, dunno what she had in mind,” replied Daryl. “Anyway, ‘s not my first time turnin’. Been turnin’ since I was a teenager. Has somethin’ to do with puberty I guess.”

“But you said this was your first time?” Paul sounded incredulous.

“Before I ran into the woods and stayed there alone until the heat died. ‘s not so bad as when there’s a potential mate ‘round.”

His voice died at the last words and red crept up his bare shoulder. Affection swelled in Paul’s heart, threatening to burst his ribcage. “It appears I fit the bill of your potential mate. You don’t mind if I claim the position? Less hassle the next time you turn.”

“Don’t wanna force ya...”

“I happily, willingly volunteer myself,” Paul teased. “Besides, I happen to like you a lot, Daryl Dixon, so, no forcing at all.”

His teeth playfully gnawed the tips of Daryl’s ears, eliciting an embarrassed grunt from the hunter. “Ya kinda said it already… that ya liked me…”

Paul choked on his laughter, biting his tongue. “When? I don’t recall ever telling you about my feelings,” he yelped, “or anyone, for that matter, not even Maggie or Tara.”

Daryl snorted, pleased with himself for causing Paul a minor freak-out. It was simply unfair and annoying that the Hilltop scout always appeared calm and composed in whatever shit situation he found himself in. Daryl had made it his personal mission to make Paul lose his cool for once. “Ya told ‘Daryl’,” he deadpanned.

As realization dawned on him, Paul’s face darkened. “You... you furry little liar!” he stuttered, face flushed and heated.

“What did I lie to ya?”

“You said you didn’t remember—”

“Everythin’. This is among the bits an’ bobs I did.”

“Clever,” Paul scoffed, defeated. He didn’t know the Alexandrian possessed a devious witty streak in his stoic, solemn skeleton. There were a lot about Daryl he hadn’t known and he was terribly thrilled by the aspect of learning them day by day. Covering his face with his hand, Paul laughed, “Since the cat’s out of the bag, pun intended, I figure I can be perfectly frank about it and ask you whether the feelings are mutual.”

Daryl was so quiet that Paul began to think he might push too hard at the boundaries. From the first day he’d met him, he could tell the man had built wall after wall around him. To get past those walls required much time, and it simple couldn’t be done after one good sex, despite how satisfyingly mind-blowing it was. Before the scout officially freaked out and opted to take back his words, Daryl spoke, small-voiced, “At least I know who I should run to next time I turn.”

Paul breathed a lengthy sigh of relief. He hugged with all the strength of his body, trying to convey his overwhelming affection to the older man. “I’ll make sure to give you plenty of belly rubs and the best cream I could find.”

Daryl’s tail whipped Paul’s thigh, eliciting an undignified yelp. Despite the growl at the back of his throat, he was having a wide, toothy grin.

_End_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is the end, hope you all enjoy it. I can’t thank you enough for reading and taking the time to leave comments.


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